The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes
by Isilwe
Summary: A collection of short stories based on BBC's Sherlock. Stories that are an extension, derivation, explanation, randomization of the events in the series or little snippets in between the episodes. As yet, (since the stories are still a work in progress) there is no boy love, maybe some casual insinuation, nothing to be worried about. I think.
1. Addressing Loneliness

**A/N:** Welcome, welcome. Before you begin reading, let me be clear. I rarely read other people's fanfiction. Yes, there are many wonderfully written ones out there, but I usually avoid them because it tends to be a little too dreary for my liking. Especially for a series like Sherlock. (I read a few and just felt like committing suicide after.) SO! I have tried and enjoyed writing a little collection of short stories based on the Series. I'd like to think of them as humorous little insights to life in 221B Baker Street but this thing has a life of its own. I'm writing snippets and essays that occur during random times of the series, which I am attempting to put into chronological order. I will write clearly at the top of the stories, the time line it occurred to avoid confusion.

And yes. SPOILER ALERT! (Please go watch Sherlock, if you haven't yet.)

Have fun, laugh, and enjoy this collection!  
  


* * *

_Before 221B Baker Street_

**Addressing Loneliness**

His phone rang. Once. Text. Watson was lying on his bed, _cot, more like,_ and threw a glance in the direction of the sound. It was on the table. _Damnit._ Not that it mattered. It was probably Harry trying to keep an eye out for him. _Not that she's in any position to._ He should get out of the room. Go for a walk, grab a bite. This time, he fixed his gaze at the cane by his bed. _No._

He hated this. The anger, the frustration, the bitterness. He has never been a sweet man, if he was, he wouldn't even be in the Army. No. But he had always been a man with a purpose. People come to him with their problems, not the other way around. _Therapist._ He snorted in derision and the sound echoed around the spartan room. He had a limp, big deal. He'll learn to deal with it, like he always does, but at the consistent nagging of his friends and Harry, he found one.

_Absolutely ridiculous._ A blog, she told him. Write a blog about his problems. Even the thought of it was ludicrous. Putting up his petty complaints up on the internet for the entire world to see? He would laugh at himself, even if the world didn't. But she was insistent, and he couldn't refuse. _His only flaw._ When people asked something from him with sincerity, he just couldn't say no.

He pulled himself out of bed and he could feel the dull ache of the muscle deep within his bad leg. It wasn't not painful that his mind swam in a sea of red. That particular prize goes to the shot in the shoulder. But it was annoying and debilitating. _Psychosomatic my arse._ He's been shot for gawd's sakes, you'd think people will trust his ability to differentiate between real and hallucinated pain.

Stretching his stiff leg out with precise movements before lowering himself into the chair, he tried to avoid the stab of discomfort that will always shoot up his thigh. But it came anyway. _Damn this leg!_ When the ache subsided, he stared at his laptop for awhile, before grudgingly lifting the lid. After a good fifteen minutes staring at the blank space that was supposed to be filled with words, he could only write four.

**Nothing happens to me**

To hell with the full stop. At least Ella will shut up about the blog now. He increased the word count by three. That's an improvement.


	2. On the Topic of Privacy (Or lack of)

**A/N: **Yes, I'm uploading two chapters at one go because the first one is dreary and I don't like dreary. Have fun! From here on, it should take a week (give or take) for new chapters to be up. Have fun!

And yes again:** SPOILER ALERT.** (I think I have to do this every chapter.)  
  


* * *

_1 week after Study in Pink_

**On the topic of Privacy**

_Sherlock Holmes is insane. _This isn't the first time Watson thought that of his new flatmate as he watched the tall man rush about the kitchen/_makeshift laboratory_ over his laptop. Absolutely brilliant and at the same time, absolutely insane. He had been living with the self proclaimed high-functioning sociopath for about a week now and he still couldn't figure out how Sherlock always managed to read people's life stories in five seconds. Hell, when he moved into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had simply walked into his bedroom, glanced at the clothes he was packing into the bureaus and immediately commented on his inability to settle down with a woman. How the hell did he know he had eight girlfriends before Afghanistan?

"Your sweaters and socks." Sherlock replied, always in that tone. That_ I can't believe I have to spell it out for you tone. _When he just returned a confused look, Sherlock had sighed and went on to explain how three of his sweaters were of different fabrics and colors which Watson would not have chosen for himself. His nine socks were also of more flimsy make, again, something he would not have bought because he was a military man, the durability of socks is of utmost importance. He also correctly deduced that one woman, his longest girlfriend, bought him both a pair of socks and a sweater, because _while it's hardly been worn, the red sweater is only sold during Christmas four years ago, so it's a gift and the socks is almost worn threadbare and judging from the fade of color, it's about five, no five years and three months ago._ "The argyle woman."

"The what?"

"The woman who bought you the green argyle socks and the red argyle sweater."

"What about her?"

"She must have been a nice girl."

"Wait, how did you kn-"

"Because a woman who thinks you look good in red argyle is a moron, and probably didn't know how to dress herself either so the only reason you'd have stayed with her is because of her personality."

"Now I know why people say 'piss off'."

Sherlock simply gave him one of his smirks. "And now I know she dumped you."

"How did you-"

Sherlock walked out of the room. "You acting defensive told me."

Brilliant. And utterly _insane._ Shaking off the memory of Sherlock analyzing his previous romances, he returned to his task at hand, typing out his blog post about the woman in pink. _A Study in Pink_. Watson smiled to himself. _Not bad._ He hasn't seen Ella since he's off the cane, but he know she'd check out his blog for professional reasons. This will cheer her up, he was certain. Ella was a good woman, who was really trying to help him, if he could do something to show his appre-

"John. We have a client." Sherlock's voice broke his reverie.

"What?" He looked up from his blog post and saw Sherlock standing at the window, peering down. _Wasn't he in the kitchen/makeshift laboratory just a few seconds ago?_ "You mean **you** have a client. **I**, have a job interview that starts in..." Watson glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece "Thirty minutes. Try not to make a mess before I get back, I just cleaned up the kitchen this morning." _Makeshift laboratory. _

"We are out of coffee." Sherlock said, his eyes still glued onto the stranger hovering by the door of 221B Baker Street.

Short silence. "Are you asking me to buy some?" Watson frowned at the man standing stock still by the window.

"Why else would I tell you we are out of coffee?" Sherlock threw Watson a glance that read _silly question, waste of time, how could you not get that? _and returned to his staring at the unknown person below, analyzing, extrapolating, hunting.

"Well, because people normally add a please in there somewhere." Watson replied as he stood up and gathered his keys.

"No, wait!" Sherlock nearly tackled Watson down. "Don't open the door!"

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what he wants yet. Why is he standing at the door and not ringing the bell?" Sherlock went back to the window. "What is he doing? He requires my assistance and yet he is hesitant about it. What is he thinking about? Judging from the askew scarf hanging around his neck and his unbrushed hair, it means he got here in a hurry. If he got on the Tube here, he would have seen his untidy reflection in the mirror, or if in a cab, off the glass window no, but he did not fix them, means he was busy, probably preoccupied with his phone because he's checked it nine times in the last three minutes, all of that screams it's something of importance, but now he's just standing there. **Why?**"

Watson had already mentally shut out the monologue before his flatmate said 'assistance'. "Sherlock, I need to get to my interview!"

"Get out by the back."

"I do stay here you know, and I have no intention of turning up for an interview smelling like yesterday's garbage."

"There's a reason that he's hesitating at our door. Maybe he was sent here, or maybe he was forced to come here but there might be someone else watching him to see if he enters. Or maybe he is waiting for me to open the door-"

_Yep,_ Watson thought to himself as he shrugged on his jacket but not without the slightest tinge of resignation. Here's hoping his potential employer didn't have Sherlocks' nose. _Sherlock Holmes is _**_insane_**. He almost regretted moving into 221B Baker Street.

Almost.


	3. Regarding Birthday Suits

This teeny story was actually inspired by Sherlocks' bed sheet shenanigan in A Scandal in Belgravia. Don't you think Watson seemed fairly unsurprised to see Sherlock in his palace attire?

As always, SPOILER ALERT. (Not really, I'm just getting people to go watch Sherlock.)

* * *

_2 weeks after A Study in Pink_**  
Regarding Birthday Suits **

Fourteen days. Two weeks of staying in 221B Baker Street and Watson is almost used to the strange ways of his flatmate. But this morning held yet another surprise. Scrap that, shock was a better term for the visual assault he had. Right now, Sherlock was sitting in the armchair by the window, his fingers absentmindedly plucking the metal strings on his violin, his eyes staring into empty space, that mind of his already working on a new case. For the past three days, Sherlock gave up his meals, his sleep and his experiments to work on a problem Mycroft presented. Sherlock had initially scoffed when he heard Mycrofts' footsteps up the stairs and proceeded to make himself scarce but he couldn't resist peeking into the manila folder his brother left on his desk and in spite of himself, proceeded to work on the puzzle.

He sat in that armchair for two consecutive days, alternating between mumbling to himself, engaging Watson in some random conversation, researching frantically on his phone and silence punctuated by pizzicatos. Yesterday night, Sherlock broke his meditation, proclaimed he needed sleep, promised death to anyone who woke him before he got six hours of shuteye and stomped up into his room.

This morning, Watson was abruptly woken by the constant drone of his phone vibrating on his bedside table. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, he grunted, "Hello?"

"John, where is Sherlock?"

Watson recognized the voice instantly, politically correct yet condescending at the same time, only one person he knew was able to swing that. "Mycroft?"

"Obviously. Sherlock has been ignoring my calls and texts regarding the Secret- Ah, I mean, the case. Where is he?"

"Asleep, like I was?"

"I need an update, John, anything he can give me so go wake him up and get him to call me."

"Have the Holmes' never heard of the word, 'please'?"

"Please, John, but quickly." Sound of the line going dead. A mental image of bashing Mycroft on the head with that ridiculous umbrella he always carried popped up. But he knew the case was probably of some urgency. Mycroft's pride wouldn't let him ask his sociopathic brother for help unless he had no other option. Pulling on a dressing gown, he walked over to Sherlock's room, six steps away. He knocked once. "Sherlock? Are you up?"

Complete silence. He could hear Mrs Hudson rattling about in their kitchen, probably trying to figure out which test tubes and beakers she could wash without disfiguring her weathered hands. But it was complete silence behind Sherlock's door. Watson frowned, Sherlock rarely slept in, he usually was the first one up, ready to demand a cup of coffee the moment Watson came down, while solving the daily paper's crossword puzzle, in ink. But Mrs Hudson was not engaging in conversation with her tenant, which meant Sherlock was not downstairs. He knocked once more, a little louder this time. "Sherlock, are you there?"

No reply. Watson was getting worried now. As he opened the door, he said, "Sherlock, you all-" and words failed him. He immediately shut his eyes, but it was too late, the image was burned into his retinas. Shock always does that.

Sherlock booty, in its full glory. The owner of said derriere was sleeping like the dead. He looked like one, limbs splayed out on the bed, his face down, in his birthday suit, with a bit of bed sheet covering his torso, and that was it. He'd heard of people who enjoy sleeping in the buff, but he didn't know Sherlock was one of them. And thanks to this scene first thing in the morning, he don't think he could ever forget this little fact of his flatmate, ever.

Watson, with his eyes still glued shut, edged towards the end of the bed, picked up the other end of the bed sheet and threw it over his still sleeping flat mate, in a attempt to make the current sight more socially acceptable. Well, as best he could, without opening his eyes. He cracked open one eye now, relieved that the essential parts have been suitably censored. He jabbed Sherlock a little harder than he needed to. Revenge for the shock, probably. "Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Mycroft called me because you won't answer your damn phone."

Sherlock raised his arm in the direction of Watson's voice, palm up, his face still buried.

Watson stared at the expecting hand for a bit. "What?"

"My phone." Watson inhaled. He had patience, but summoning it was always a challenge when it came to Sherlock. "Where is it?"

"On my desk."

Amazing how quickly he felt like strangling his flatmate when the latter has only been awake for ten seconds. "If it's downstairs, get it yourself."

Sherlock finally pulled himself upright, wrapping the bed sheet around him, eyes red rimmed and his curly hair a complete mess. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," he commented as he stifled a yawn. Watson had no reply, he needed his coffee, now. "Make me one too, I'll be down in a minute."

Bloody mind reader. Without even bothering to wash up, Watson headed straight to the kitchen. And bless Mrs Hudson, she already had a pot brewed, which she promptly poured out a cup and pushed into his hands. "Good morning dear, did you have a bad night?"

"Bad morning." Watson replied. No need to go into details. "Is there any breakfast?"

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear." Mrs Hudson chided but she could not keep it up. "I did go to the supermarket yesterday. How do you want your eggs?"

"Poached, Mrs H. You are a saint." Watson reached for the paper as he sipped the bitter brew. Bless the landlady, she already remembered how he liked his coffee. No sugar. Ignoring the day's headline news, he flipped straight to the crossword puzzle. A jab on the shoulder was not revenge enough, and proceeded to solve it, in ink, as smell of bacon and eggs filled the room. Mrs Hudson was already putting in the final touches for the sautéed mushrooms when Watson found himself stuck on the last word. 11 letters, starting with M. Another word for misconduct?

"Malfeasance."

Watson looked up to see Sherlock striding into the kitchen, properly dressed now, in his usual white cotton shirt, striped pants and blue silk robe. "What?"

"Haven't you read any Law books?" Sherlock scoffed as he accepted a mug of coffee from his landlady. "However, I'm impressed it only took you sixteen minutes to finish the puzzle."

"I'm a doctor, not a lawyer." Watson grumbled but he filled in the last word. "Have you texted Mycroft yet?"

"Ah yes." Sherlock headed to the table. "Anything interesting?"

"I haven't read the papers." Watson cleared the table for Mrs Hudson's breakfast. "So did you manage to solve the problem?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, one hand still holding the coffee mug, the other rapidly typing away. "I figured out the answer just before I fell asleep."

"And you couldn't be bothered to get up and text your brother before you went to bed?"

Sherlock glanced at Watson before resuming his text. "Are you still upset? Why are you angry when you were the one who walked into my room?"

"At least lock the door if you were- er..." Watson remembered Mrs Hudson was still in the kitchen.

"Were what?" Mrs Hudson set down a plate for Sherlock. "Come and eat dear, before it's cold."

Watson tried to change the topic. "Nothing Mrs H, this is delicious, thank you."

"What are you two on about?" Mrs Hudson pressed whilst doing the dishes.

"John walked into my room while I was sleeping." Sherlock replied simply.

"SHER-!" Before Watson could shut his flatmate up, Mrs Hudson gave a knowing chuckle. "No wonder you looked so huffy just now."

"You know about his sleeping habits?" Watson asked incredulously.

Mrs Hudson shrugged. "He wasn't answering the doorbell."

"I sleep more soundly that way. If I was going to spend my hours sleeping, isn't it more logical to fully utilize the time?" Sherlock commented in a matter-of-fact tone. "Besides, you were Afghanistan, John, I'm certain neither you nor your fellow soldiers have the luxury of personal bathrooms. Surely you are used to seeing naked men by now."

For the thirtieth time in the fourteen days in 221B Baker Street, Watson found himself speechless. Well, almost. "In any case, you will wash your own bedsheets from now on."


	4. Dvorak and Disputation (I)

**A/N:** Okay, I miscalculated with this one, it ended up being a lot longer than I anticipated. (When it comes to the subject of music, particularly classical music, I can't help myself.) Hence, I'm splitting this oneshot into a twoshot. Have fun!

P.S I intend to drag out a lot of references from both the series and their blogs. Google John Watsons blog and The Science of Deduction, if you haven't yet.

* * *

_3 weeks after A Study in Pink**  
**_**Dvorak and Disputation (I)**

If 221B Baker Street ever burned down around Sherlock's ears and there was no hope of putting it out, Watson was sure the first thing he'd rescue is his violin. Everything else he owned, threw every which way when he was on to something. He once saw Sherlock stomp on his phone as he walked across the coffee table. And this was the one item Sherlock usually carried around diligently, hoping for new puzzles.

But in his third week here, Watson noticed that there was one item in the house that he never abused. The Violin. It was always laid down with care inside its case, or if he was in a hurry, it would be placed gently, almost lovingly, in the seat by the window, then returned to it's case the moment he could spare the time. It was polished and dusted with disturbing regularity, (every monday after dinner), tuned to careful precision with his eyes closed and a half smile on his lips whenever he got it right. And the almost meditative way he tightens the frog, rubs the little cake of rosin onto the hair of his bow, dusts the powdery residue off his pants before positioning the bow and played. If Watson didn't know better, he would claim that Sherlock worships his violin.

Today was one of those strange days when Sherlock decides to do the grocery, out of utter boredom. He'll be back in an hour or so with the milk, and about twenty other things that caught his eye which would be promptly dissected and discarded. But for this rare moment, Watson could lounge anywhere he liked in complete peace and quiet. So he made a cup of tea, no sugar of course, some biscuits Mrs Hudson baked this morning, grabbed the day's paper and was about to settle himself in the armchair by the window when he stopped short. The seat was taken. Sherlock's violin, artfully leaning against the arm rest, aged varnish subtly gleaming in the mid-afternoon light.

Watson pondered for a moment, staring at the violin, tea in one hand, a plate of Mrs Hudson's fantastic gingersnaps in the other and the paper clipped between his arm and torso. He has never touched Sherlock's violin, ever. Sherlock had not explicitly forbidden Watson from handling his instrument but Watson simply assumed it was a holy relic, and he while he knew to play a simple tune on a violin, his musical forte (if it can be called one) was the clarinet that he learnt in school. He cast a quick once over in the room for another chair. The mannequin has taken up the sofa, distorted in a grotesque shape because Sherlock was trying to emulate a situation to see if it was possible to strange someone while they were in a yoga position. The kitchen table was, as always, a biohazard, so that was out of the question. And the table that they usually ate breakfast on was buried under an avalanche of books. His laptop is beneath that somewhere, he really ought to keep it in his bedroom.

Watson stared at the violin again. He had no choice. He stacked the plate of gingersnaps on top of his tea, and gently, as if it would spontaneously combust, picked up the violin and with the care of a bomb technician removing a warhead, placed it in the case. He promptly proceeded to enjoy his tea and biscuits. Before he did the dishes, Watson put the violin back in its original spot. Sherlock had many minefields and he didn't want to learn if the violin was one of them.

In two hours, Watson had managed to stack most of the books in a corner of the room. The back of his head was still throbbing from where a hardcover had made contact while trying to unearth his laptop. It was then he decided to put the room in some semblance of order. As he placed the last of the books on top of a somewhat secure tower, he heard Sherlock thumping up the stairs, two at a time. His flatmate was excited about something.

"John, I caught myself a drug smuggler in the supermarket! It was absolutely brilliant! He had all the typical signs of-"

Watson cut in. "Where's the milk?"

"What?" Sherlock had frozen with his hands in the air, displeasure in his eyes that Watson had interrupted him.

"The milk, Sherlock, the reason you went out of the house in the first place?"

"I caught myself a smuggler in the supermarket John, I had to gather the evidence and send him to Lestrade." Sherlock replied.

"And it didn't occur to you to get the milk on the way back?"

"Of course not, why should I?" Sherlock strode to his violin. "You can get it after your date tonight."

"And how did you know I'm going out on date? Were you following me again?" Watson frowned. He once saw his flatmate trailing after him when he went out for some errands. It's hard to miss that coat.

"Oh, while you jump at every opportunity to ask a woman out, nobody really needs to follow you to notice that little detail. You are wearing your date shoes." Sherlock scoffed as he picked up the violin, probably to continue the Prokofiev sonata that he stopped learning halfway earlier in the day, before he announced his boredom and stormed off for the milk that was never bought.

"Date shoes? I don't always wear these to my dates!" Watson exclaimed indignantly.

"4 dates, always the same shoes." Sherlock stared intently at the violin he now held in his hands. "And you touched the violin."

Watson knew better than to lie in front of Sherlock. "Yes, I did, because I had nowhere else to sit."

Sherlock threw Watson a mildly annoyed glance. "Wipe your fingerprints off the neck next time. Do I have to clean up after you?"

That was the last straw. Sherlock, cleaning up after Watson! As if that day would come! Watson left the room in a huff, he needed to be out of the house in half an hour anyway, the Tube was always insane at this time. Behind his closed door he could hear Sherlock picking at the sonata. Prokofiev's Violin Sonata in F, Opus 80. The First Movement. He had peeked at the score out of curiosity. He was never a fan of twentieth century music, too much dissonance. But this one he liked, rather dark, a little melancholic, constantly changing, mildly schizophrenic. Very Sherlock. Watson felt the stab of annoyance that he had come to associate with Sherlock. There was only one person on this planet who could play Prokofiev absentmindedly while his brain drifted to work on some problem. Watson checked himself in the mirror, to made sure he looked presentable when his gaze fell onto his shoes.

Bloody mind reader!

_To be continued_


End file.
